quintessential-quiet

four failures. i. i tried to force a poem out of my head, on a page, and got this. ii. i tried to force a poem to speak, to teach, and this is what i got. iii. now i am thinking oh, maybe i should have tried asking nicely, 'cause iv. i tried force a poem and i failed. instead i conclude with this.

it smells musty and dead and something like dried piss or olive oil drips down a wall in frozen fortitude. the paint peels in eggshells. rusty bars crosshatch the grimy windowpanes. everything is the color of August: that starved teal tint of vegetation after Summer's restless assault.                               sinners breathed this                               air, tasted this                               place, and it makes me feel                               hot and                               sick and                               long for an ironic escape, but                              

ashtrays and anarchy, let's breathe blood chase chains drown in the downfall eat the eulogy feel the fever, and give the gold. hear me hold this inside, inhale justice. justify this, just feel knuckles knocking along your lungs. monsters moan. never nothing. own it up, only people are plagues, and that quintessential quiet revels, reveals secrets and splinters of truth, maybe trust, always turmoil. understanding this utopia is volatile, versatile. wondering about the world, is it xenophobic? maybe, and yes, this is all just zero.